Girls Are Made of Sugar and Spice

Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice

except when they get pissed and riled and spoken for

and down at by dimwitted boys made of snips and snails

and puppy-dog tails in suits pandering to fringe groups

 

who have Jesus in their hip pocket and shit for brains

when it comes to complicated moral issues and thinking

outside of the box.

 

It reminded him of one afternoon in high school when he

invited his new, really, really bright and independent

(Did he mention independent minded?) girl friend to an after

school meeting of Youth for Christ. He was nervous to begin

 

with not knowing how it would go. After all, her family

belonged to what seemed secretive to him – the Greek

Orthodox Church.  They did strange things

 

like put colored, hardboiled eggs, shells and all, in

Angel Food cake at Easter and hold handkerchiefs

between them as they dance in circles at baptismal

parties. Being a middle-America, middle-class,

 

middle of everything high school kid known for a great

collection of crew neck sweaters and Pat Boone white bucks

and who sang “April Love” while walking down

 

the hall between classes, he was really uncomfortable with the bells and

smells and the priest’s long beard and dunce hat.  His pastor wore a

three-piece suit at the morning and evening service. Given her background,

he wasn’t even sure she was a Christian but she had a great butt to

 

go with a great brain and he was a high school junior boy made of snips

and snails and puppy-dog tails, but he was even less comfortable

with some of his less than hip

 

super Christian classmates in Youth for Christ.  And, of course, Murphy was

right.  It went wrong. He introduced her; they sat in a circle and they

prayed around the circle in what was called “free” prayer.  There was

nothing free about it, at least you weren’t free to opt out.  Yes, his new,

 

really, really smart, really independent-minded girl friend would be

expected, no, required to pray, out loud and spontaneously

(That’s what evangelicals mean by free.).  Where was the guy in

 

the beard and high hat when you needed him?  He prayed for

bells and smells. The prayer chain moved counter-clockwise and

she was next in line.  He sat on the other side in Purgatory

descending quickly to the ninth circle.   It was her turn. He peeked

 

and in the corner of his eye saw her pursed lips and clenched

fists. They sat in an eternity of silence. He jumped in with some kind of

incoherent, delirious diatribe of mumbo-jumbo.

 

Impressed, others thought he spoke in tongues.  It was called free prayer,

but he knew in that moment that it would cost him dearly. You can sit in,

but you can’t opt out; you can check in but you can never check out

like Hotel California. They call it free, but it comes at a really big price.

 

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what might be on the sugar and spice

and everything nice minds these

days.